The inspector, since he had come to grief over American geographical nomenclature, was grimly taciturn.  The consul, however, was by no means certain of his victory.  His alleged fellow citizen was too encyclopaedic in his knowledge:  a clever youth might have crammed for this with a textbook, but then he did not look at all clever; indeed, he had rather the stupidity of the mythological subject he represented.  “Leave him with me,” said the consul.  The inspector handed him a precis of the case.  The cherub’s name was Karl Schwartz, an orphan, missing from Schlachtstadt since the age of twelve.  Relations not living, or in emigration.  Identity established by prisoner’s admission and record.

“Now, Karl,” said the consul cheerfully, as the door of his private office closed upon them, “what is your little game?  Have you ever had any papers?  And if you were clever enough to study the map of New York State, why weren’t you clever enough to see that it wouldn’t stand you in place of your papers?”

“Dot’s joost it,” said Karl in English; “but you see dot if I haf declairet mine intention of begomming a citizen, it’s all the same, don’t it?”

“By no means, for you seem to have no evidence of the declaration; no papers at all.”

“Zo!” said Karl.  Nevertheless, he pushed his small, rosy, pickled-pig’s-feet of fingers through his fleecy curls and beamed pleasantly at the consul.  “Dot’s vot’s der matter,” he said, as if taking a kindly interest in some private trouble of the consul’s.  “Dot’s vere you vos, eh?”

The consul looked steadily at him for a moment.  Such stupidity was by no means phenomenal, nor at all inconsistent with his appearance.  “And,” continued the consul gravely, “I must tell you that, unless you have other proofs than you have shown, it will be my duty to give you up to the authorities.”

“Dot means I shall serve my time, eh?” said Karl, with an unchanged smile.

“Exactly so,” returned the consul.

“Zo!” said karl.  “Dese town—­dose Schlachtstadt—­is fine town, eh?  Fine vomens.  Goot men.  Und beer und sausage.  Blenty to eat and drink, eh?  Und,” looking around the room, “you and te poys haf a gay times.”

“Yes,” said the consul shortly, turning away.  But he presently faced round again on the unfettered Karl, who was evidently indulging in a gormandizing reverie.

“What on earth brought you here, anyway?”

“Was it das?”

“What brought you here from America, or wherever you ran away from?”

“To see der, volks.”

“But you are an orphan, you know, and you have no folks living here.”

“But all Shermany is mine volks,—­de whole gountry, don’t it?  Pet your poots!  How’s dot, eh?”